


a little bit lost (without you)

by wrenstars



Series: sumitaba week 2020 [4]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenstars/pseuds/wrenstars
Summary: there is no instruction manual or let's play for grief. sumire and futaba are figuring it out.
Relationships: Sakura Futaba/Yoshizawa Sumire
Series: sumitaba week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873864
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	a little bit lost (without you)

**Author's Note:**

> your grief path is yours alone, and no one else can walk it, and no one else can understand it―terri irwin

**WHO AM I BUT YOUR SHADOW?**

She is there, but at the same time, she is not.

Sumire feels like she’s existing in another dimension, a parallel world, and that a thin a thin veil separates herself from the people miling about her home. They are like the trees in an abandoned forest: the rooms are dark and dimly lit, their voices the wind that quietly passes through the dead trees, and they wear black, black, black, so much _black_ , a festering mould of despair and depression, of grief and mourning, haunted by the memory of a ghost. A bright light has been snuffed out, and only the shadow remains.

Would this grief be so heavy, settling over them like a visible fog, if she had been the one to die instead? 

People find her in her corner. They commiserate with her, mourn with her, and give her their pity. “We’re sorry for your loss,” they say, over and over again until the words have as much money as an overplayed song. Sumire looks down, nods, thanks them in a voice barely above a breath. She can tell they’re empty words, anyway, their approach a mere formality: no one makes an extended effort to engage with her. She’s sure they’re avoiding her. 

Fine by her. She’s avoiding them, too. She’s as far from the food table as possible for a reason—it’s where the majority of people have gathered, and the sight of food is enough to make her stomach churn. All food tastes like wood in her mouth, except for Kasumi’s favourite noodles. She’d purchased it in a fit of self-loathing and rage; the vegetables had tasted like ashes and dirt, the spices of angry, spiteful rage. She’d eaten every last noodle, drunk every last drop of sauce.

It’s the only meal she’s fully eaten since her sister’s sacrifice. 

Her father enters the room, drink in hand. It’s red. Red wine. Sumire swallows, her throat suddenly thick, and leaves the area.

Her feet take her up the stairs—where, exactly, she doesn’t know, except _away_. She pushes a door open and drags her feet inside, looking up only when she’s standing in front of a room. 

The blood drains from Sumire’s face.

She’s ended up in Kasumi’s room.

It hasn’t been touched since her death. Two shelves spread across one of Kasumi’s walls, both packed with numerous trophies: gymnastics trophies and gold medals and various academic achievements, joined by the numerous certificates stuck on her walls. Her bookshelf hosts a prolific, advanced book collection and her desk is clean and organised with her textbooks still stacked on it. 

Sumire thinks of her own wall, of the occasional bronze medal and the participation certificates that felt more like commiseration than encouragement. Her room is barren compared to Kasumi’s, whose walls drown in the volume of her victories, smothering the person she was beneath her achievements. 

Sumire lets out a choked little noise and steps back, her back crashing against the wall. _Look_ , the room feels like it’s screaming at her, the trophies gleaming in the sunlight, _look at what you’ve stolen from her. Better you went instead so her accomplishment could fill your wall, too_. 

Sumire covers her eyes and stumbles towards the door, groping around for the door handle. As she fumbles with the cold metal, she hears the people come up the stairs; the anxiety of being discovered is enough to make her freeze. 

“It’s a pity they’ve lost Kasumi-chan,” a voice says. A woman. Sumire doesn’t know her and, iIf she does, she can’t picture her. Her voice is heavy and dripping with sympathy like sugary syrup, a thing that cloys up all other senses. “She had such a bright life ahead of her.”

“Agreed,” a deeper voice says. A man. “Sumire-chan’s a nice enough girl, but she doesn’t have half the potential of her sister.” 

“That she doesn’t,” the woman sighs. “I hope she picks herself up soon.” 

Sumire slides down the wall and onto the floor. She’s not even angry, she realises, staring blankly at the opposite wall. She’s… numb. Numb and empty because she doesn’t disagree with either of them. 

She doesn’t move for the next hour, and only leaves once she’s sure the rest of the guests are gone.

* * *

**THOU ART I… I AM THOU?**

An identity crisis, a psychologist with a god complex, a group of thieves and Akechi-san and a palace later, Sumire finds herself at practice for the summer meet once again.

She’s only just walked into the venue, but sweat already coats the nape of her neck. Sumire sighs and pulls her hair up into the usual ponytail, _Kasumi’s_ ponytail, and rummages around her bag for the ribbons she keeps on hand. She hesitates over the selection before she sighs and selects the usual red ribbon.

It isn’t the only ribbon she owns. She’s bought a few more colours over the past few months—white and purple and black and Cendrillon-dress-blue—but her hand always dips towards the red as though pulled by magic force, even as her stomach churns putting it on. 

_Vanadis red_ , she tells herself firmly, looking herself in the mirror. _It’s Vanadis. Me_. 

She mutters the sentiment under her breath a few times before she moves into the middle of the floor. She breathes in, closes her eyes, and fluidly arches her body down to touch her toes. 

Her warm-up and general training routine hasn’t changed much, even after the events of the past year. She and Kasumi have shared the same training regimen since the junior league, and their most recent one still forms the base of Sumire’s routine, though tweaked slightly to better focus on her own goals and skill sets. Coach Hiraguchi had mentioned a completely new regimen as a possibility, that Sumire had shot that down almost instantly. 

Why she’d done so, she can’t say. She hadn’t been able to give Coach Hiraguchi a reasonable response other than a shrug and “This one is serving me perfectly well, thank you.” 

Maybe she’s still clinging to Kasumi. Maybe she’s not ready to distance herself from Kasumi yet. Maybe she wants to prove that she can be _better_ than Kasumi, but achieving better results than Kasumi had on the same training routine. 

She can’t say for sure. Perhaps it’s something she should bring up with her therapist. 

Sumire shakes herself in an effort to clear her head. Thoughts of Kasumi are like cobwebs: they cling to her, stick her to, and require that she constantly dusts herself off. It’s exhausting, especially when she knows how much of her performance relies on her having a sharp, focused mind. 

Without further ado, she commenced the exercises. They’re simple warm ups, stretches she could perform in her sleep. The stretching sensation is comforting in its familiarity.

She’s so lost in her efforts and the counting of her breaths that she doesn’t notice two others are watching her until they speak. 

“She’s doing well,” one of them says. “I used to think her dedication was lacking compared to her sister’s, but she’s surprised me these past few months.”

Sumire freezes in the middle of touching her toes. Slowly, in movements that make her feel like she’s wading through water, she brings herself back to her starting position and grabs her other foot. She doesn’t feel the stretch. 

The other nods. “Agreed. I used to say she had no hope for a future in gymnastics, but she’s shaping up to be a serious competitor. Just like her sister was.” 

Sumire hastens to her feet, making the snap decision to ditch her progression into dynamic warm ups and instead instantly begin her routine. It’s dangerous, she knows that, knows that no good athletes should ever contemplate exercising on a barely-warmed-up-body, but there’s an itchiness beneath her skin that can’t be sated, that makes her need to move and move _fast_ to outpace it.

Standing in her starting position leaves her feeling sick. Sumire waits only long enough to fill her lungs with air before she commences, entering the first movements. She’s relieved her routine is a fast one this time: she can imagine that she’s moving too fast for the men’s eyes to settle on her, that she can remain an enigma they can’t categorise. 

“She really is like her sister, more than ever,” the first voice muses, after a period of extended silence. He lowers his voice, as though they’re not the only people in the room and his voice won’t carry through the air anyway. “I’m not the only one who did a double take when I saw her on top of the podium last time, was I?”

Sumire nearly trips. “I’m not,” she wants to scream, “I’m not her. I’m Sumire.”

She doesn’t say it, however. 

No one hears her silent, broken plea. 

“Certainly not,” the second says. 

There wasn’t a second’s hesitation in his reply. 

That’s it. That’s _enough_. 

Sumire breaks off her routine mid-move and strides to the edge of the floor. She stuffs her towel and bottle in her bag, swings it over her shoulder and leaves, making no effort to hide her short, angry strides, her heaving shoulders or the redness of her cheeks. 

She leaves with indignation and anger and so much frustration, and the intention of texting Coach Hiraguchi for apologise for leaving.

* * *

**TELL ME, DO YOU STILL SEE ME?**

Sumire feels like she’s on top of the world.

The number of people on their feet vastly outnumber those still sitting, their applause and cheers almost deafening in her ears. It’s an ear-splitting effort, one devoted to celebrating _her_. Her friends are all here, all on their feet, cheering and waving and clapping over their heads—Sumire is near certain that Futaba is jumping up and down on her chair, and that Ren-senpai is reaching out his hand to steady her. 

Sumire giggles. Her heart feels ready to burst from her chest and spill glorious, joyful things, like a pinata bursting with candy.

And it’ll all because of her, _for_ her. They’re applauding for her routine, her steps and her score; for the hard work, the sweat and tears and late nights she’d put into working on it and polishing it up; for the determination and will power she had to summon from the depths of her soul like Cendrillon. They’re applauding for her, for her own name. For Yoshizawa Sumire.

Sumire looks at the heavens. She wonders if Kasumi’s there, if she cares, if she’s watching this happen. She has to be, surely. This is their dream.

 _I’m doing it, Kasumi_ , she thinks, hoping that her sister hears. _I took my sweet time getting here, but I’m finally pursuing our dream. I won’t let anything get in our way_.

A man comes forth, medal in hand. Sumire recognises him from previous competitions—he handed Kasumi a lot of her gold medals. This will be the first time he’ll give a medal to Sumire.

Sumire beams at him and bows, allowing him to slip the medal over her neck. It’s heavy; a reminder of the work, both physical and mental, that’s just been translated into victory. Into gold.

“Well done,” he says. “Your sister would be proud.”

His voice is warm and genuine, a hint of pride in it himself, but Sumire feels like she’s just been dumped into a lake of iced water. Her smile fixates itself on her face, plastic and fake like Akechi-san’s old TV smiles. 

“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is flat. It sounds disconnected from her body, out of time with the movement of her lips. Sumire pretends to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, but really trying to steady herself against a sudden onslaught of dizziness so she doesn’t embarrass herself and topple backwards off the podium. 

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur, like someone’s placed it on fast forward—speeches become undecipherable noise, scenes blur together as she moves from the podium to the venue floor and to the locker room, with no memory of how she arrived at either location. She sits on a bench and rests her head between her knees, breathing deeply.

Even when she steps out of the shadows and into the spotlight of her own name, her achievements are still gramed in her sister’s memory. It’s Kasumi this, Kasumi that—is Kasumi proud? Is Kasumi disappointed? What would Kasumi think to see you now? Are all of her performances going to be measured against Kasumi? Is she ever going to achieve anything of her own merit?

What about her? Does her happiness mean anything? Can anyone talk to her without mentioning her sister’s name? 

Sumire can’t breathe. The medal grows heavier and heavier, intent on dragging her down with it. 

“Kasumi,” she whispers, to the floor, the air, to herself, to Kasumi, to everybody and nobody, “Are you proud of me? Do you hate me?”

She receives no answer. 

Sumire can’t remember if she had been expecting one.

* * *

**MY SOUL CALLS OUT TO YOURS**

“Do you ever feel judged?” Sumire asks quietly. 

Futaba frowns from the other side of Leblanc’s booth. It’s just the two of them today: Ren-senpai is out somewhere, Sojiro is taking a cigarette break outside, and it’s a rainy day so not many people have decided it’s necessary to embrace the miserable weather for a cup of coffee. 

Sumire’s never been more grateful for Leblanc’s slow business.

“What do you mean?” Futaba asks. She pushes her hot chocolate away and leans over the table, arms spread out on either side of her.

Sumire stirs her coffee. The spoon clatters against the side, lonely. As at a loss for what to do. It has no job outside of the coffee, after all, its skill at its job dependent on how well the sugar stirs into the coffee. Its performance will always be measured against the quality of the coffee. Just like her. 

Sumire hunches over her cup. “That your worth is constantly measured against someone else,” she murmurs, tracing the rim of her cup with her thumb. “That no matter what you do, it’ll always be related back to them, even when that someone isn’t around. That nothing you achieve will ever truly be your own. It’ll always just be an extension of _them_.”

Sumire’s breath rattles on the last word. She ducks her head and pulls her coffee closer to her body, ensuring that she takes up as little space as possible. 

Futaba shifts into a crouching position and wraps her arms around her legs, rocking slightly in place. She absently starts to pick at a loose thread in Leblanc’s seats.

“Whoa, _whoa_. What are you asking me for? I mean, I know we’re girlfriends, but my social stats are nowhere _near_ a high enough level to attempt this mission. They’re start-of-the-game level, even!” Her tugs become more insistent. “Wouldn’t Ren or Ann be better at this?”

Sumire shakes her head. “I’m not looking for advice, or even something to say. I just—” She exhales deeply, breathes in. Tries again. “I think you’d understand, Futaba. Maybe Maktoo-senpai would know where I’m coming from, but I just feel more comfortable talking to you.” Her head shoots up. “Not that that’s supposed to pressure you into listening to me, however!” she exclaims. “All of this is void if you’re not comfortable with it.” 

“No, it’s okay. Power of friendship and all that, right?” She shrugs. “And I care about you, Sumi. A lot. I wanna help. Soooo…” She rubs her hands together, “What’s your status? How can I help?”

Sumire flashes her a grateful smile. It lasts as long as a shooting star, and is just the same—something beautiful that makes how ugly and boring it actually is.

“I just feel… lost,” she mumbles. She looks down at her half-drunk coffee again: meeting Futaba’s eyes causes her chest to seize up. “I know I’m making progress, both mentally and in my gymnastics, but it doesn’t feel like it’s _mine_. Everyone tells me that Kasumi would be proud, that I’m living up to _her_ name, that I’m _just like her_ —it’s Kasumi Kasumi Kasumi, but it’s never _Sumire_!” Her knuckles turn white around her cup. “I may as well still be her, if she’s still who everyone sees! I hate her sometimes, hate that she casts me in her shadow even in death, but then I feel horrible because she sacrificed herself for me. And I hate myself for being a hypocrite, too, because I still cling so desperately to her.” Sumire laughs hollowly and wipes her eyes. She’s barely surprised they come away wet. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, rubbing her eyes harder. “I’m such a mess.”

Still so useless. 

The tears won’t stop coming now that she’s noticed them. A tissue box is thrust beneath her nose.

“Here,” Futaba says. “Budge over.” 

Sumire does so. She blows her nose while Futaba shifts beside her, tapping the desk as she waits for Sumire to calm down.

“Look,” she says. “I don’t like talking about this, so I’m not gonna. But I am going to tell you that I understand. I’ve been compared to my mother… numerous times. I’ve loved her, resented her, and I’ve hated myself.” She bounces her leg in place, but still slowly reaches her hand out and places it over Sumire’s. “Having your worth judged against another person’s for so long isn’t easy! It isn’t fun! And it never really fucks off, does it?”

Sumire shakes her head. “No,” she agrees, sniffing. “It really doesn’t.”

“Mm. It’s a boss that doesn’t stop spawning, or following you around. There’s no special item that defeats it.” Futaba squeezes Sumire’s hand. “You just gotta get used to it, so it doesn’t seem so scary. Or band together with other people so you become bigger. And that group can remind you that you’re awesome so—hey! You’re awesome, _Sumire_!”

The sentiment comes from nowhere, so much of a surprise that it makes Sumire _laugh_. “Thank you,” she chuckles, shaking her head. She twists her hand around so she can squeeze Futaba’s back. “I needed to hear that.”

She did, actually. Sumire can’t remember the last time she laughed—she feels a tiny bit better for it. 

“Least I can do. It’s far from a strategy for dealing with this, but unfortunately there’s no 100% Let’s Play for grief.” Futaba groans. “Look. I am _so_ fucking bad at this comfort thing, you probably know that already, but I can try. You can talk to your S Rank Futaba, okay? Or we can play video games together and forget everything.” Her eyes light up. “Or watch gymnastics videos! Ren will sometimes play video games that I can watch when I’m having an especially bad time. That makes me feel a bit better, so maybe we can do the same with gymnastics videos for you?” She shrugs, pats Sumire on the shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Sometime soon. Probably.”

Sumire snorts. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“Hey! I’m doing my best here!”

“I know you are,” Sumire says, “And I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

She moves to lay her head on Futaba’s shoulder but freezes, sending her a questioning look. Futaba seems to get the message, for she shrugs and lowers her shoulder, just enough for Sumire to comfortably rest her head on it. She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing, and Futaba’s, and how life flows through each of their veins. It’s comforting. Reassuring.

“I love you, ‘Taba,” she mumbles. 

Sumire can picture Futaba rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I love you too.” 

This is not a solution. It’s a strategy, something she can do to cope while waiting for her next therapist appointment. But right now, with Futaba, she feels safe. She feels understood. 

For now, it’s more than enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> neither of them really understand what they're doing. but they're supportive girlfriends, and will always have each other's backs. 
> 
> my [twitter!](https://twitter.com/agicelestines)


End file.
